


ill protect you, from the coldest of winds

by robinlikeitshot



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adoptive Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Dadza, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), it is entirely based on their canon characters on the dsmp, note: this fic is not rpf as the tags suggest, pretty much canon compliant with added backstories and such
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinlikeitshot/pseuds/robinlikeitshot
Summary: Philza Minecraft has only one canonical life on the Dream SMP._____“You alright there, mate?”“Me?” and the look on Phil’s face makes it obvious the man has no idea why his voice has pitched two tones higher, almost snarling, makes the anger andfearrun all the more faster. “Phil, you’ve gotta be more careful! You don’t know what could have happened there,” but the voices have an imagination stronger, crueler than the worst of sadists, and they don’t hesitate to tell him what could have been borne of that moment. “You could havedied!”
Relationships: Technoblade (Dream SMP) & Philza (Dream SMP)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first mcyt fic, borne entirely of wanting to put an angsty twist on techno freaking out everytime a baby zombie approaches phil. pretty excited about it ngl lol. a huge thank you to Mizuphae and [al](https://dumble-daddy.tumblr.com/) for their terrific help betaing!  
> (disclaimer: this fanfic is NOT at all about the content creators in any way, and is solely about their c!characters)  
> hope yall like it!

Techno wakes up precisely twenty minutes before the sun’s rays light up the horizon, just as he's done every day for the entirety of his retirement. One thing that is _not_ consistent with his daily morning routine, however, is the hissing and groaning sounds of mobs filtering into the wooden walls of his otherwise soundproof home.

He frowns, glancing at the window he must have left open by accident, pulling himself out of the warmth of his bed to shrug on the heavy cape thrown over a chair last night when he'd stayed up too late talking to Phil to be awake enough to fold it. The fur settles on his shoulders as he reaches for his pickaxe, this more carefully cleaned and placed inside the chest on the immediate right of where he sleeps. Sliding down the ladder silently, and wary of an ambush, he calls out, “Phil?”

No response. That isn’t odd in and of itself though; there’s been a couple of times where Techno will wake up only to walk in on Phil sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, a light brushing of snow already dripping off the coat hung next to the door. But still, there have been too many times that the piglin has found the man with a healing potion in front of him instead of tea to not feel antsy.

Despite still being in his sleep clothes, Techno steps outside onto the snow-covered balcony to be greeted by the sight of Philza taking on a mob of forty monsters at once. This by itself wouldn’t be all too concerning, as his dad’s proven time and time again to various worlds the prowess of his survival and fighting abilities, but given that Techno can see—even from a distance of twenty blocks—the bleeding gash on Phil’s upper arm, staining the dirtying snow beneath his dancing feet a bright red that makes the voices clamor a little louder, he feels excused in hefting his axe and running the last few feet into the fight. Because there’s nothing like a good fight to warm up for the day, right?

The crinkling smile Phil gives when he sees him eases the slight tension in his shoulders, tension he didn’t even know was even there.

Shaking off the worry that would only serve as a distraction, Techno spins and cleaves another spider in two as he dodges an arrow. He sees Phil duck behind a tree stump to shoot rapidly into a hoard of zombies out of the corner of his eye, and slowly yet surely, a smile inches its way on his face. The movement of his blade, the _swish_ of fabric behind him, the hissing of mobs as he cuts through them with Phil by his side—it’s familiar, an almost comforting rhythm telling of the years they’d fought together.

He lets himself get lost in the dance, allowing himself to drift away from the smell of rotten flesh that stinks up the air around them as the sun begins to finally clear the treeline. The voices are silent for once, appeased by the piles of carcasses building around him, and he indulges in it, smiling as Phil whoops at a trick shot he’d been practicing for the past week landing perfectly.

He turns, about to call out and banter like they’d do to keep a fight from growing boring after the first twenty zombies when he _sees—_

* * *

_There’s sunlight streaming through the tall window panes of Phil’s room, making yellow crisscrosses all over the boringly white, rumpled bedsheets. By this time, Techno would have already started on either reading or helping Phil with the chores, but it’s the second Tuesday of the month, which means that instead of having to clean out the chicken coop, he can lie in bed and listen to Phil tell stories._

_This morning he leaps out of bed at daybreak only to hop up onto the table next to Phil’s bed and give him a gentle poke on the shoulder. Phil still doesn’t move, so he gives him a not-as-gentle poke. Phil rolls over. Techno frowns in frustration, almost tipping over the table when he tries poking the man’s wings. ‘_ Wake up _, old man, I know you can hear me!—’ Eventually, he manages to wake Phil up for real by tickling his soft feathers right where the wings start, the wheezing laughs forcing him to rub the sleep from his eyes._

_By that time they’re both good and awake, and Techno, bundled up in blankets even though it isn’t even that cold, watches quietly as Phil recounts a tale of how he’d managed to slay a trio of skeletons armed with nothing but two wooden sticks and a carrot. Techno likes story days; he likes watching the sun hit Phil’s face as he makes ridiculous expressions, acting out what had happened in the fight with an umbrella in place of any of the real weapons Phil still doesn’t let him near._

_But most of all, he likes story mornings because they’re the one day where Phil won’t brush off his questions about the man’s scars. The man has a lot of them, which was to be expected with the amount of experience he’s had in his still relatively short lifespan (and most of it in hardcore mode at that, known for its high casualty rate), Techno thinks. And being a curious child, it’s only expected he inquires about them, right?_

_Wrong, apparently. Phil would ignore his questions every time his fingers tapped against the shock of white lines on his bicep or the obvious claw mark on the back of his neck; sometimes he’d even manage to trick Techno into changing the subject entirely! But on story mornings, the man would tell him the story behind every single mark, enough that Techno thinks he can probably fill two whole books with the tales Phil regales him with._

_Tilting his head to the side, he watches the man shake his head as he finishes the story of the time he’d got into a badly thought-out fight with a polar bear, eyes drifting wistfully to the view of their farm outside. Techno wonders what he’s remembering._

_The turn of his neck makes the neckline of his loose shirt dip, and the sunlight illuminates a deep, still pink gouge running from the top of his collarbone all the way over his heart. Techno draws in an involuntary breath; he’d never seen_ that _one before—and sure, Phil doesn’t show him a lot of them, some being far too gruesome to show an eight-year-old child despite their piglin blood, but still. This one seemed to be fresher than all the ones he’s seen before._

_“Which world is,” and when Phil turns to look at him, warm eyes crinkling, he taps the top of the shoulder that houses the wound, “this one from?”_

_Phil’s face is blank for a second too long, before he chuckles, tracing the line himself. It’s a low sound, and while Techno usually loves hearing Phil’s laugh, this time it’s too sad, too wistful to be nice. Because despite the smile still curling on his lips, his eyes are solemn, mournful. “This one, Techno, is from my very last world.”_

_“The one that made the record?” he blurts out, forgetting to apologize for interrupting when Phil’s eyes turn a bit lighter at the way he practically bounces on the bed._

_“Yes, exactly!” he laughs. “I was there for five whole years.” His eyes drift back to the sunlight, and again Techno wonders what he’s looking for. “It was, well, it was home.”_

_He frowns. “Isn’t home here?”_

_Phil looks back down and this time his eyes don’t do the droopy sad farm animal thing. “Yes, of course it is. This is our home. But before, before that was home too.”_

_He falls silent then, not looking at anything this time. Techno can’t decide if staring right into the sun like it won’t blind him or staring at the pillows like he’s about to burn a hole in them with the suffocating silence is worse, so he coughs a little, tapping the very tip of the pink scar again. “Story?” he asks, quietly._

_“Oh, right. It was a, a baby zombie, actually, that took that life. I was already down from an explosion, and, well, guess the kid took its chance.” And this time when Phil shakes his head, laughing at the ridiculous death, Techno can hear the hollowness in it. “It was a foolish mistake, Techno,” he continues, when the huffs of breath he doesn’t think can even be called laughter have subsided. “And it’s also a lesson to always be careful around mobs, okay? No matter how good you get, be careful.”_

_“Won’t I just respawn?” he asks, despite not wanting to break the quiet that fell at Phil’s words, even the birds outside quieting._

_Philza smiles, and Techno wonders what this one means. “You don’t have a lot of these yet, Techno. I hope it stays that way.”_

_Techno resolves at that moment to make sure he protects his dad whenever there are mobs nearby. Because he doesn’t ever want to lose Phil, doesn’t want to lose story mornings that almost always drifted into noon, and most importantly, he doesn’t want Phil to look so sad ever again._

* * *

—a baby zombie runs toward Philza’s turned back at inhumane speeds. The man himself is barely even holding his guard up, confident and sure movements taking out the monsters ahead of him, completely oblivious to the hissing and spitting monster aiming to deal a lethal blow to the back of his legs, _no_ —

Techno’s fought his own share of countless battles, deadly wars, tournaments with insurmountable odds, but he’s never felt sheer, unequivocal panic as he does at that moment because _that’s Phil_. Because there’s one person in the entirety of the whole universe who the piglin cares for, who he’d do anything for, and if that person dies, Techno knows the last remaining bit of his soul that hasn’t been stained with bloodlust and the corruption of the voices will die along with him.

Phil _can’t_ die.

So he takes a running leap and lands in front of the zombie, bracing himself. Phil whips around at the sudden movement, but Techno pays him no heed, just grits his teeth at the heavy blows on his armored legs by the fists of the baby zombie. Heavy blows that could have been fatal without the armor, Techno knows.

With two cleaves of his axe, the undead child falls to the floor and doesn’t get up again. Techno turns around, mind still in the razor-sharp focus he can’t remember adopting since his duel with Dream, to make sure that Phil hasn’t met the same fate.

The appearance of Phil casually knocking back a flaming skeleton is such a contrast to the hazy adrenaline-panic running through his veins that it makes Techno stop in his tracks. Only reflexes prevent him from having to spend the next two hours fixing his helmet from a nasty spider bite, and he makes quick work of the final remaining monster, the sun well over the tip of the lowest mountain now.

“You alright there, mate?” Phil says with a laugh. Techno turns around, panting, not for the vigorous exercise morning mobs always were, but for the fear still closing his throat till he can barely breathe, and stares at him. On any other day Techno would have shot back a joke about watching his six better, but this time all Phil’s teasing smile does is shove another needle into his speeding heart.

Because he could have lost that. One, just _one_ mistake and—

“Me?” and the look on Phil’s face makes it obvious the man has no idea why his voice has pitched two tones higher, almost snarling, makes the anger and _fear_ run all the more faster. “Phil, you’ve gotta be more careful! You don’t know what could have happened there,” but the voices have an imagination stronger, crueler than the worst of sadists, and they don’t hesitate to tell him what could have been borne of that moment. “You could have _died_!” he ends up shouting, loud enough that Carl whinnies in annoyance from his stable. But the force does nothing to expel the jitteriness from his muscles, the tremble of his nerves.

Phil cautiously takes a step forward, as if he’s approaching a wild animal. Techno tries calming his heart rate as Phil quietly says, as if to smooth over the impression Techno’s shouting must have made on the morning birds, “It was just one zombie, Techno. I would have been fine”—but he wouldn’t have been, he wouldn’t have been fine because if Techno hadn’t been there in that exact second, Phil could have become nothing but another memory to haunt this world, another name to be crossed out in the long list of family members to leave him behind—“echno, Techno, I think you need to calm down, mate, Tec- _Techno_!”

He jerks as Phil’s voice finally registers, the man’s grip on his shoulder shaking him out of his spiral. Techno grasps the hand offered to him, stares into his dad’s concerned eyes, and tries to make him understand through the sheer power of his grip alone. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he manages to get out, whispering through the thickness in his throat that evolved from panic to something that makes his voice a tad more watery than he’d like.

Philza hugs him. The warmth, the weight of his arms around him are more comforting to Techno than any words might have been, the solid proof that what the voices were telling him hadn’t happened, and the grounding helps clear the haziness from his mind too. Still.

“Be more careful,” he says, breaking the silence after a brief spell of silence. “Please.”

Techno isn’t sure what he’d do if Phil refused, so it takes all of his considerable willpower to not release an audible sigh of relief when Phil just quietly replies, “Okay.”

* * *

Needless to say, Phil makes sure to always alert Techno before he goes out to fight mobs, double-checking his armor at the piglin’s silent request. Neither of them mention it, but he can’t help but be grateful for the sight of Phil sipping his cooling tea at the table, every morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t do this,” he rasps, too little, too late. The crush of his bones is already echoing through his mind even as he stands, faces his execution. What is inevitable will arrive, and the villains of the story never die with flower-marked gravestones. “I will _kill all of you_.”
> 
> “Get in the box or we’ll fucking kill Philza.”
> 
> The air is somehow warmer in the box, despite the ghostly feeling Techno feels choking him. He turns, faces his judges with a calm expression. _What is inevitable_ will _come,_ and Techno’s crown has always been too bloody to belong on the head of a king. No, _no,_ it belongs to the _Blood God_.
> 
> The totem is clenched tightly in his fist, hidden beneath his cape. Fundy has a grimacing expression on his face, as his hands wrap around the rope holding the anvil aloft. Techno takes a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst chapter time :D
> 
> also thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter, it was really nice to hear! hope you guys like this one even if its not as fluffy lol

They’re coming, they’re coming and Techno knows it, he knows it because Phil told him, that they’d found the compass. They’re coming and he needs to finish these potions, needs to get Ghostbur out of here, who looks so earnest in offering his help, blue ink dripping between his fingertips and marking a trail on the snow-white ground, but Techno can’t risk getting him captured, tells him to take Friend and run because _they’re coming_.

The Butcher Army, all geared up and readied to catch the blood god himself. The Butcher Army, a pack of hopeless _children_ to think they can take on Technoblade. The Butcher Army, who have just made it over the last ridge and into the hazy valley of Techno’s home.

Techno takes a breath; the whistle of cold wind feels oddly warm as he locks the wooden doors behind him, tearing his eyes away from where Ghostbur is waving at him, surrounded by his hunters. The metal is warm, too, beneath the light dusting of snow. It puzzles him, for just a moment, before his hand returns to the (warm, warm, _warm_ ) grip of his sword where it's sheathed at his belt; he’s got far more important things to worry about.

The surge of adrenaline quells in his heart as that constant feeling of déjà vu beats ever-present at the back of his mind. Every step of his hooves in the ice-cold snow blanketing the outside of his stables sends warmth so hot as that of a fire shooting up his spine, until he’s finally close enough to hear the shouts of the child soldiers sent to bring him down.

Shaking his head to disperse some of the smoking ash falling from the heavens, Techno raises his face with the pride of a king to meet the Army here to steal the only peace he’s ever known. He doesn’t want to let them, because despite the ache behind his eyes whenever the voices screamed for more violent acts with the gardening hoe he'd heaved into the dirt night after day, he didn’t succumb to the blood lust. He'd stayed true to his retirement, but, like a cruel twist of irony, it seems like the spilt blood has finally caught up with him.

“And what brings you all to my humble abode?” he calls out once the two sides, one a battalion with four men and the other a single piglin with a thousand voices, are finally close enough that the winter wind doesn’t steal their decrees away. He doesn’t fool himself, though; there’s only one reason why the president and his army could have shown up at his doorstep dressed in full enchanted netherite.

And it’s the child president himself who steps up, shouts to be heard over the rustlings of monsters at the boundaries of the torchlight, “Technoblade, you are under arrest for various war crimes to the country of L’Manburg! Including the spawning of fifty withers—”

“I—I’ve changed,” he interrupts, “I’m a different person now, I’ve gone into retirement—” The Blood God doesn’t ask, for mercy or for forgiveness, but the hoe strapped beneath his cape still has slight smudges of dirt on it and he’s just been doing _so well_.

“I’m sorry, Technoblade,” and Quackity steps another foot forward, ax swinging almost casually in his hand, “but you blew up the entire fucking _country_. As much as you’ve changed,” another step, “you’ve got to be brought to justice for that.”

A few months ago, his sword would already have been whistling through the air, but he doesn’t want to lose this, these days of peace and quiet, despite the brutal opposition from the voices. So instead, he tries diplomacy one more time, tries to change the minds of soldiers with only one order. “I have gone through _so_ much effort, over the past months, to change my violent ways. I’ve _reformed_ ,” but has he really, when even the reverberations up his arm after slicing a zombie in two with his axe doesn’t quell the bloodlust?

“The voices,” and he steps closer, Ranboo shifting a little bit back, glancing at his teammates even whilst the others hold their ground, “they demand _blood_. And I? I have been denying them. I have been fighting back!” except for they’ve never been louder than they are now, _Blood for the Blood Go—_

“Please,” and here he pleads, as he turns from Ranboo, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, to Fundy, Fundy whose grip on his axe had started trembling the moment Ghostbur had appeared, blinking curiously up at the group and pointing to Techno’s house. Tubbo, who looks like he’d be ready to martyr himself then and there if it would be in the name of a flag destined to burn. “Please, don’t make me kill all of you.”

The sword is heavy in his hands, the barest hints of sunlight just beginning to reflect off the enchanted netherite as he says, almost as if for deniability, “Please, just leave.”

They don’t take the way out. Even an attempt to distract the president with his carefully built beehive only gives him a few moments at best, just far enough to reach Ghostbur at the treeline. The shouts ring out behind him as they realize he’s almost beneath the tree coverage, so he turns and spins, sword held out in front of him.

It’s well into the day now, with no mobs to provide any less than welcome background noises to the fight, yet Quackity’s voice is still loud enough to carry to the slopes of the mountains bordering the field. “It’s gonna be the easy way or the hard way, Techno! We’re taking you back to L’Manburg, and you’re going to come with us, there’s no way you’re getting out of this!”

And that’s where the man is wrong. Because there’s always a way. A way that the voices whisper in his head for every one of his waking moments, and every one of his dreams, a way that Techno has lived by his entire, bloody life, a way that he'd tried so, so hard to give up, because if there’s no other way, “if there’s no other way, _I choose blood_!”

The Orphan Obliterator whistles with the wind for the first time in months, and along with it, the voices rise, screaming for blood. And for the first time in months, Techno answers them.

They shout, shout so loud as to rival the voices, but in the end, nothing can be, with the cacophony rising as he lands a killing blow on the sixteen-year-old yelling for Quackity to come help him, the armor he’d changed out for his suit useless in the muddy dirt it was now slumped in.

“Guys, this, this isn’t good!” Ranboo shouts from somewhere to his right, and Techno turns to him, aware of the bloodthirsty grin stapled onto his face but too tired to stop it. He can see the fear in the half-enderman’s eyes, and if he weren’t so caught up in the haze of red he might just feel ashamed. A few blows, the netherite armor absorbing most of it but Techno can see it cracking, cracking—

Fundy tries to stop him, the fox hybrid visibly burning with rage and that righteous feeling of vengeance all of them used to have, _he_ used to have before the scars started running a bit too thick to be worn with pride. Techno makes sure to give him one to remember, cutting right through the final defenses of the netherite to land his blow. Looking up, panting with exertion, he locks eyes with Ranboo again, hoists his sword—

“Technoblade, stop!”

Techno whirls away from the fallen body, eyes wide as his heart finally seizes with a panic he hadn’t known when it was only his life on the line. He turns, turns to see the blade of Quackity’s pickaxe pressed tightly up against Phil’s neck, right under his chin. “Stop or your old man fucking gets it!”

Techno stops.

“Hands up, Technoblade!” Tubbo shouts from behind him, having respawned and already shook on the glowing armor. Fundy’s axe nudges the back of his cape as Techno slowly puts his hands up, eyes locked on Phil’s wide blue ones. They’re not scared, not like they should be, like how he remembers in that hazy memory at the back of his head, of flared whites and whinnies and shaking diamond armor, where—

“Fine, fine,” he tries, attempts to placate because despite his disorientation there’s one thing remaining clear in his mind, and it's the thin line of red forming on Phil’s throat. “I’ll do what you want, just don’t hurt him.”

Phil’s saying something but it’s drowned out, drowned in the wake of the feeling of stiff rope wrapping around his wrists, the shakiness the loss of his armor’s weight gives. Drowned in the way Phil’s thrashing, shouting as Ranboo awkwardly tugs him over to a box, foreboding and dark in the middle of a wooden platform smack in the middle of the city. It’s almost like a stage, he can’t help but think, even as the boy stumbles when Techno stops walking.

“Get in the box, Techno,” Quackity hisses. His grip on Phil hasn’t loosened, despite the way his eyes are eagerly drawn up to the large black anvil hanging above all their heads like a damning omen.

“You can’t do this,” he rasps, too little, too late. The crush of his bones is already echoing through his mind even as he stands, faces his execution. What is inevitable will arrive, and the villains of the story never die with flower-marked gravestones. “I will _kill all of you_.”

“Get in the box or we’ll fucking kill Philza.”

The air is somehow warmer in the box, despite the ghostly feeling Techno feels choking him. He turns, faces his judges with a calm expression. _What is inevitable_ will _come,_ and Techno’s crown has always been too bloody to belong on the head of a king. No, _no,_ it belongs to the _Blood God_.

The totem is clenched tightly in his fist, hidden beneath his cape. Fundy has a grimacing expression on his face, as his hands wrap around the rope holding the anvil aloft. Techno takes a breath.

“No!” And Phil manages to land his elbow right under Quackity’s jaw, knocking him back far enough to push back from that deadly blade. Ranboo immediately lifts his own, Quackity pulling out a sword in the space it takes Phil to turn around and look at him, his eyes wide, saying something, _something_.

His last breath is a plea. “Phil, Phil just do what they want! Please—” because he can’t lose Phil, he _can’t_ , and Fundy’s cutting the rope and the anvil is making a thundering noise as it tumbles, tumbles, tumbles its way down the shaft to its stationary target but all Techno can focus on is the bright, bright red staining the wood as Quackity’s sword pierces Phil’s chest—

Everything goes dark. The totem is still in his hand, his breath still comes steadily, heart still beating. Technoblade never dies, after all, but does the saving of one of his _three_ lives matter? Does the escape of a single rope of scar tissue marring his crown matter? No, no it doesn’t, it doesn’t because nothing will _ever_ matter anymore, because the one person, _the one person he cares about_ , who cared about _him_ is gone, gone forever because Philza, Philza has only one canon life and god, god he should have been more careful! Should have told him to hide, should’ve fought harder, this was all his _fault_ —

There’s pale moonlight, falling through his window and making crisscrosses on his boring white bedsheets. The first breath Techno takes of consciousness is in tandem with Philza’s calm voice at his back, shoulders rising in the comforting hold of his dad’s arms.

He starts thrashing. He can’t help it, because Phil’s dead, Phil’s _dead_ , what—

Phil just holds on tighter. “Hey, hey it’s okay, mate! You’re good, you’re alright,” and the man was obviously able to sparse through the unintelligible dialogue he must’ve been spewing whilst dreaming, because the next thing he says is, “I’m fine, really, Techno.”

Techno’s face is wet. This would probably be embarrassing in any other given scenario, but with his heart rate as high as it is, all he does is focus on the soft cadence of Phil’s voice, as he slowly trails off once Techno calms down. The man transitions into humming lowly, incredibly off-key but soothing in that it was _Phil_ , who is alive and real and next to him and not gone yet.

And so Techno drifts back off into a finally dreamless sleep, with the thought firmly engraved into the fine print of each of his thoughts, his plans and contingencies. He can’t lose Phil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment down below if you liked it, they absolutely fuel me, and kudos are also much appreciated. thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment down below and let me know how i did! kudos are also much appreciated, and they're a great motivator in writing more chapters :D (also if you have any suggestions as to tags pls feel free to share them, since I'm still pretty new at this)  
> next chapter should be out sometime next week!


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